


Ghosting

by Notmothman



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Artist AU, Artist Keith (Voltron), Beach Setting, Cafe AU, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Klance voltron - Freeform, Langst, M/M, Marine Biology, Modern Setting, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Scientist Hunk (voltron), Scientist lance (voltron), Shopkeeper Shiro (voltron), alternative universe, artist allura (voltron), scientist pidge (voltron), seaside town
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-19 05:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notmothman/pseuds/Notmothman
Summary: Amnesiac Lance washes up in a quiet seaside town, carrying the burden of a dark secret. Nursed and housed by lighthouse keeper Shiro, Lance must uncover the mystery of his past and enigmatic artist Keith.A voltron AU set in a modern day seaside town! Langst meets coffee shop AU and Artist AU.





	1. Chapter 1

The lighthouse rests on the edge of a broken cliff, walls grey with age tucked against rocks which scramble to touch the archaic bricks. It is a fallen idol, once revered for its bulk and light, its mass now just a memory of the past.

He rowed through the harbour, boat small and unsteady. Freakishly silent waves scanning his face for the traumas of yesterday. There is a quiet fervance in the water, with the intensity of a stalking predator.  
They cannot see the loss in his ocean blue eyes, tan skin an unnaturally warm cover for the cold expression of a killer.

Lance had drowned a man; slaughtered his friend and murdered a trusted companion. He was the one to pull the trigger. he had watched as the bullets punctured pale flesh, tearing apart a still beating heart. He was now alone, only the glare of the lighthouse left to judge him for his sins. 

He did not believe in hell, yet no matter how hard he tried to deny it: this was his personal dose of damnation. 

The glide of the boat was unsatisfying. Despite the smoothness of the waters there was an air of uneasiness around him. Lance couldn't tell if the oppressive force of a pair of hands behind him was from the sea, or in his mind. Flushing from the unsettling thoughts he let his oars be devoured by the depths.

It was as though it took an eternity for the liquid silence to be broken, the splintering hull of his vessel scraped against toothlike rocks with an unholy growl.  
Lance’s neck jolted forward, forcing him to watch the flickering observance of a seaside town. There were houses sporadically littering the groaning cliffs. The pier was a single pathway, his brown planked road to the gateway of Oz.  
On either side of him stood strong ships, their steel rumble on the water was welcoming, beconing him into the town to finally rest.

This was the perfect place for him, practically a dead man, to die.

It took every bit of strength to haul his thin body out of his casket boat. The shallow whisper it left for him drew him to look into the vessel one last time.  
Inside lay a lifeless gun. His precious Blue lion.  
Lance allowed himself to tentatively hold the weapon, blistered fingers followed the flow of its engraved metal casing. Forget me nots: carved onto his handgun, he carved them to remember his family when he left Cuba. Smiling at the thought was bittersweet considering what he had used the gun for.  
He couldn't keep her anymore; not with the weight she now carried. He kissed the barrel of what was once a loyal defender.  
“Adios mi amor.”  
He pushed the gun into the watery abyss, the weapon let out a bubble as though she was gasping for breath.

The weight of the sky brought inky blackness into Lance’s vision. There was nothing he could do but submit to the call of the void.  
In an act of defiance he closed his eyes and mouthed the words: “Goodbye baby blue” into the unilliminated water.  
Then he was sleeping.

 

Lance found himself faced with unexpected brightness, cold stone walls pressed against his hunched figure. Metallic flicks from raindrops hit the window like a shower of bullets, every breath he took echoed through the room. His hand was grazed on the floor as he felt the chilling surface. He winced, the twinge of pain was a stark realisation that he was not dead.  
He was impossibly alive.  
Undeniably filled with the hot breath of the living: the elixir flowing through his heated veins.  
It was wrong, he was meant to be dead.

The sickly taste of iron was overpowering on his tongue, whoever had brought him to this strange place had not been gentle. His head was throbbing, sight faltering from a canopy of black ink to bright stars.

At this point there was nothing else he could do but haul himself to the glass portal to see the outside world.  
He had been brought to the lighthouse, below him was the soft collision of waves on the clambering rocks. The hustle and bustle of fishermen preparing for their daily outings bringing nets which unfurled like moths breaking free of their cocoon.  
Light enveloped the town giving it a hopeful, heavenly appearance. He brought his hands to the roughly shaped wooden frame and opened the window; allowing for a waft of cool breeze to hit his face. The harsh coldness in the air from last night still lingered; Lance felt himself tense at the sensation.  
The cold was the least of his concerns; he needed to find out why he was brought to this place.

According to the room he was in, this was the top of the lighthouse. His round room was small, however the owner had incorporated a rigid writing desk and shelves overwhelmed with dusty artifacts. He was drawn to leather bound books tightly packed onto the harshly cut surface, their soft faded reds and blues tired but restful. Whoever lived here had apparently placed his limp body on a pile of knitted blankets, told by the line of muted wool he had trailed from his awakening. Whoever lived here had also apparently decided to leave him unconscious in the study.

It took a quiet groan for Lance to haul himself down the lighthouse ladder. The lack of security informed him that he was not a prisoner in this home, however the uneasy quietness of the building sent shivers down his neck. 

The floor below was only slightly larger than its predecessor, a round table stood proudly in its centre like the golden yolk of an egg. It was suddenly clear that Lance was not really alone. The quiet lulling of the sea was drowned out by the spitting of a boiling kettle. Teacups chimed as a pair of white hands delicately lifted them, pouring in the hot liquid.  
The owner of the hands then spoke.  
“Do you take milk and sugar in your tea?”  
Lance was suddenly embarrassed at his hesitation to enter the room.

The boy making the tea was stupidly pretty. His milky skin was a stark contrast to his ashy black hair, tied back neatly with a purple ribbon. Angular features were cut with sharp glass. Lance noted how his host’s violet eyes shone passionately in the morning sunlight: amethyst clusters.  
His pretty face scrunched up in confusion, “Dumbass i’m offering you tea, I’ve been listening to you shuffling upstairs for at least ten minutes.”

Lance snapped back into reality, blushing. “I suppose i'm a milk and sugar kind of man.”

He found himself seated at the yellow table, in front of him a collection of golden buttered toasts and a forest of carefully prepared fruit. The stranger was soon opposite him bearing a tray of warm drinks.  
The boy allowed Lance to take his share of food before pushing conversation any further.  
Lance still wasn't entirely convinced that the lighthouse wasn't an elaborate cover up for a prison, yet when the boy opened his mouth he listened intently.

“I found you outside, collapsed on the pier. You lost so much blood we were worried you wouldn't live.”

Well, that was some verification that the boy didn't bring him here as a captive.

His saviour let out a grunt and smacked Lance on the back. “I expected more of a thank you for saving your life.”

Lance was shaken, the guy was a top grade asshole.

“Can I at least get a name for my efforts?”

Could he not let him at least come to terms with being alive? Lance let out a sigh. “Lance McClain, marine biologist extraordinaire at your service.” He dished out the most dashing smile he could muster given the stiffness holding him down.

His companion let a small smile appear on his lips. “Hey there Lance.” he took Lances hand into a firm shake. “I’m Keith.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, Lance expected Keith to have more to say.  
“I, um like your house?”. Damn it Lance that made things way more uneasy.

Keith stared at him blankly, “This isn't my house. Its Shiro’s: he's the one who washed all the blood off you.” He leant forward, eyes questioning. “He seemed pretty worried, you apparently hit your head pretty hard on the pier.”

Hit his head? Lance had no recollection of any injuries. There was nothing but void between the memories of leaving for his exploration mission and washing up at the edge of the seaside town. Panic possessed his veins, lurking in the violent pounding of his chest.  
He prayed to every god imaginable that he would remember why he was here.

Keith’s expression pushed into a pout, “Shiro owns the local gallery, ‘Black lion Arts’, as well as working most nights as the lighthouse keeper. My brother is a busy man but I can help you find the gallery if you want to meet him.” He tucked some loose hair nonchalantly behind his ear.  
“My bike is out back, I need to search for Shiro’s old helmet. He’d be super pissed if you showed up to him with another gaping head injury.”

Lance nodded in agreement, still overwhelmed by the amnesia revelation.

While Keith searched for a helmet, Lance let himself slide back into his chair. He no longer wanted to eat. 

His vision was brought back from faded distraction when something hard and red hit the surface in front of him.  
“Here’s your helmet Lance.” Keith called from the other room.  
Of course the dark haired boy had thrown the helmet down the ladder just millimetres away from Lance’s injured face. 

“Didn’t you just say Shiro would kill you if I showed up more injured than last night?” 

“Shiro couldn’t kill me” Keith slid down the ladder smirking. “He’s a big softie under all that muscle.”

 

Soon Lance was tightly gripping Keith’s leather clad waist, squinting as the red motorbike left sand flying in its wake. His companion was hunched over handlebars, clearly uncomfortable with sharing his ride. The town in daylight was more vibrant than he had anticipated, pastel beach huts and colourful sailing boats lining his vision.  
The centre was bustling with a mixture of rugged fishermen and city folk escaping the chaos of the workplace. Gift shops stocking buckets and nets next to windows lined with walls of fudge. Keith never took his eyes off the cobbled road; he was undeniably comfortable swerving through the populated streets.

Black Lion Arts was much smaller than Lance had expected, yet it’s compact charm was amplified by harmonious murals of plant life growing over the walls. He could see a magnificent hibiscus blooming in the aged walls, lilies and orchids displaying a kaleidoscopic array of hues, yet he was compelled by a small cluster of wildflowers above the shop entrance. He placed his helmet on the seat of the bike, clearing his hands to place them against the roughly painted flowers.  
They had a far more raw beauty to them than the hyper realistic circus around them. Small white daisies with strokes marking each petal, warm yellow buttercups who’s yellow eyelids gave a soft and welcoming glow.  
Scattered within the brush lines were small dots of blue, the pretty faces of forget me nots.  
“These ones are beautiful” Lance spoke quietly.

For a brief second the corners of Keith’s mouth turned upwards. “Don’t poke them too hard or I’ll have to repaint them.” 

Lance’s face shone “Did you paint all of them?”

“The realistic ones belong to Allura, she works in the gallery cafe and serves both a mean painting and a great green tea.”  
Redness began to show on his face. “You should visit Shiro now, his lunch break ends soon.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

“I need to find somewhere to park the bike- go ahead and make sure you don’t leave the gallery.” There was a stern look in those violet eyes.  
They locked onto each other’s expressions a final time before Keith mounted his bike once more.  
With little warning the dark haired boy left the gallery, and Lance to their own hands.

Now Lance faced the patterned doorway, ready for answers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance drinks extremely strong coffee and yells at the sea.

The cafe walls were infused with the rich smells of tea leaves and coffee beans; if Lance had to label its style in any way he would have to call it shabby chic. It had a worn down charm to it, pastel blue cupboards filled with an eclectic mix of teacups and plates. Tables were clean yet had a rugged age to them, harsh lines broken into the white paint after years of use.  
A girl was arranging a display of flowers near the entrance. Her ethereal white hair slicked back into a delicate fishtail braid; it framed her warm brown features. Lance assumed that she was the Allura person Keith had mentioned earlier.  
As Lance approached the counter she jolted upwards, overtaking him to stand behind the till. 

“Sorry if I kept you waiting!” She sighed, removing gloves from her delicate hands.

Lance put one hand on the wooden counter “no trouble.” He paused. “Is Shiro here? I was told he could help me with something.”

‘Allura’ smiled “He's right there” gesturing at a small table in the corner.

From across the room lance could see, The man’s, Shiro’s shoulders hulking over the peak of his chair, dwarfing the furniture. Lance wasn't sure what he had been expecting but Shiro looked more like he belonged in a Roman gladiator arena than the confinement of the small gallery. The table in front of him was covered in an array of trinkets: even while on break it seemed that shiro was glued to his work, holding each item with an inhuman delicacy whilst writing the price labels.  
Even approaching the man whilst he sat down was intimidating, yet he believed Keith when he said that his brother was soft.  
“Hey uhh, Mr Shiro?” 

The Larger man looked quizzically with eyes unfittingly knowing embedded in young flesh. There was a certain disappointed dad look to him, despite his age. “You shouldn’t have left your bed, we still have no idea how serious your injuries are.”

Lance shuffled closer, looking at the laminate floor. “I just wanted to say I really appreciate you saving my life and stuff.” he blushed a little, uncomfortable: Shiro was really intimidating no matter his good intentions. “If there’s anyway I can help you?... I owe you one.” He grazed his cheek with bony hands.

As Shiro opened his mouth to argue, the thin scar resting in his nose moved intently. He gave sad glance towards his cluttered table. “The only thing on the pier that night was you and the clothes on your back. We still don’t know who you are.” He brought his gaze back to Lance. “The best thing you can do for both of us is get some rest, we’ll sort this mess out when you’re doing better.”

Silence

Lance was defeated. So much for repaying the debt of staying in Shiro’s home. “Thank you Mr Shiro.” 

“Just Shiro is fine.” 

“Then thank you Shiro.”

Before Shiro could return to his military style labelling mission, he gave lance a final warm gaze. “Do you remember your name yet?”

Lance paused, shaken by familiarity.  
“Yes sir, uhh I mean Shiro.” He reached for the comfort of unruly hair. “The names Lance”.

Shiro threw him a smile that must have come from the brightest corners of the universe itself. “Don’t push yourself Lance. Patience yields focus: you need to find yourself before you can move on.” He paused, seemingly understanding of Lance’s pain. “Let me know if you ever need to talk, you're always welcome here in our gallery.”

All lance could bring himself to do was nod. 

The hissing of the coffee machines brought him back from the glow. He sulked towards allura.  
She was leaning against the counter

“What can I get you?” She smiled.

“One espresso with two extra shots.”

“Wow someone must be tired! Is that all?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly something came across him. “Wait’ actually can I also get a green tea to go?”

“Of course!” She turned to the whirring coffee maker, hands reaching tentatively for tea leaves. The speed in which she finished the drinks was inhuman.   
She handed two takeaway cups, one coated in the rich image of something reminiscent of Van Gough’s ‘Starry Night’, the other wrapped in cool vines.

Allura watched his reaction to the cups. “Ah! The plants are so you can tell its green tea!”

Lance nodded. “So what's with the stars?”

Allura flushed a little. “I figured after drinking that coffee you wouldn't be missing the night sky anytime soon.” 

“I see…”

Allura read his disdainful expression. “Lance, you mustn't worry about Shiro. Even if you were fully healed he wouldn't allow you to work. I understand it must be difficult for you right now…” She held up a torn shred of paper. “Please try to relax, explore the town as you wish. Here’s Shiro’s contact if you need him.”

Lance snatched the number. Allura’s handwriting was typewriter perfection, each letter so neatly written so that he would be able to easily read it. “Good thing I have mullet head to keep me company until Shiro gets back.”

“Oh do you mean Keith?” Allura’s expression fell. “We haven't seen him around for ages. Shiro’s been really worried about him.”

Lance wasn't exactly surprised about that, Keith definitely struck him as that one rebellious emo art kid who would pull crazy stunts to prove a point.  
No wonder he didn't want to visit Shiro with him.   
He sighed, “Well I guess the rest of the day is operation find the lighthouse.”

The worried expression hadn't left Allura’s face. “Lance, if you see him again please tell him how worried Shiro is. Wait, don't tell me he drove you here?” She indicated at the red helmet tucked under Lance’s arm.

Lance gulped, Keith was done for. Turning him in would be the ultimate betrayal of his new friend. “I’ll umm, let you know if I see him later. He's dead in my eyes, leaving me in the middle of town to rot…”

Bright blue eyes shot him a deadpan look. “Lance, you're a terrible liar: I can tell you wouldn't hand him over even if you did find him.”  
Lance shot a bright red. He readied himself to craft another bullshit excuse.

Allura saw through him. “Please just promise me if you see him you will tell him how much Shiro wants him to be ok?.”

“So you're not going to beat the shit out of him?”

Allura shrugged, “Of course I am. He doesn't need to be told that.”  
Contrary to her pastel appearance, the barista looked like she meant business.

Moments later Lance found himself in the centre of town once more. Keith’s helmet had become a makeshift drink holder, leaving one of Lance’s hands free to push through dense crowds of holidaymakers. His time in Black Lion Arts felt like an eternity but the sky was still deceptively bright.

The friendliness of the buildings was claustrophobic; Lance had to tear his eyes away from their foreboding smiles.   
Without Keith the small town became a labyrinth of confusion: loud voices, the whirring of boats, the glare of an emotionless white sun. Everything about his surroundings felt unnatural despite the thrill he found in his motorbike ride earlier that day. 

Out of nowhere he was hit with a twinge of nostalgia, bringing him to wince. He could remember longing, an unwanted loneliness, the openness of sea; strong emotions amplified by the chaos around him yet they still felt residual and incomplete. As he navigated the cobbled roads he could feel his heart pounding in his throat. 

After hours on end of pushing through the masses of tourists Lance came face to face with his tower of salvation; the light itself not yet corporal but still there to gift him back sanity. Lights through the windows fade into golden disks, breathing life as though they were the sun itself.   
But this wasn’t his home. It was Shiro’s.

“Que bola asere?” No response to his shout. “Keith, buddy? You home?”  
There was an unfamiliar silence in the lighthouse, even when he had woken up alone Keith’s downstairs presence had made things more alive- even if he was a bit of a dick.   
So he wasn’t home. Great.   
He didn’t feel intrusive putting Keith’s green tea in the fridge for later, nor did he when he purged Shiro’s cupboard for snacks.   
Intrusive wasn’t the word for it, Lance would have placed the feeling somewhere between welcomed and uncomfortable.   
Upstairs, the dishevelled path he’d formed with blankets had been folded neatly into a pile; he'd have to thank Keith for that later, Shiro’s writing desk now seemed to be carrying a tray. A towel had been left for him, as well as a toothbrush and a small bowl of soup; underneath the china dish lay a crumpled note:

Hey Lance,  
Sorry for leaving you in the middle of town, something came up. I made soup as a peace offering.  
See you around,  
K x

That explained the cold liquid left for him. So the asshat knew he would get lost?   
Defeated, he threw his body onto the now arranged blankets; so much for the tidy up. He sighed before allowing his eyes to fall into sleep.

Tapping at his window.   
Lance sat up, judging from the darkness in his room he'd slept for a while.   
More tapping.  
Great, the devil had come for his soul.

“Seaweed for brains, get up we’re gonna go and scream at the ocean.”  
That was Keith.  
On second thought he would rather face the devil than this douche.

Moments later he found himself running behind Keith, his body screaming after being rudely awakened. The town at night was quiet, giving off the vibe that this was its natural state, not the tourist corrupted madhouse that formed the streets in the day. 

Keith had brought him to a small rock covered beach, shrouded in the lustre of the lighthouse.

The rocks were doused in a thin layer of saltwater. Lance mounted them carefully, gentle footwork scrambling to catch up with Keith. Under the light of the tower he felt indestructible. The glow on the water below, despite its ghostly aura, kept him sane. 

Keith held out his hand to pull his companion onto a small ledge overlooking the water, he moved his body into a gazing position which seemed so carefully crafted, as though being on this unstable ground was second nature. He observed how his lanky companion’s blue eyes reflected the ripples of the water; he watched the smile grow on Lance’s face as he pointed at the sailing boats pulling into the harbour.   
“I used to come here to sketch the waves…” he began, revealing the sentiment of the ledge was almost embarrassing.

“Its beautiful.” Lance replied in awe. “I wish I could sit here forever, just watching the sea.”

“So its too beautiful to yell at?”

“Dude, nothing is ever too beautiful to yell at, i’m hungry for that catharsis.” Lance shrugged, tugging at the tangled laces of his boots.

The dark haired boy chuckled, shuffling. “I'm glad to hear that.”

Lance examined Keith’s sharp jawline, how his eyebrows furrowed as he focussed on movements below. He was surprised when Keith pulled out a small, leather bound notebook and began to scrawl.  
He didn't want to lose the moment, so he gently poked Keith’s arm to distract him from   
“You can't just ignore a guy for the sake of your artwork on the first date.” He winked, raising a jaunty eyebrow.

It sent keith into a deep shade of cherry red. “Lance this isn't a date?”

“You mean two guys just watching the ocean on a beautiful ledge at night? Sounds a lot like my first date with a girl i met way back in my first year of college.”

“Wow so it's not even an original date?

“So it IS a date!

Keith shone a deep burgundy. “That's not what I meant!”

Keith looked down, avoiding eye contact, twisting his pencil around in his calloused hands. “You mentioned a girl from your college? Does that mean you can remember how you got here?”

DIstance grew in Lance’s eyes. “Not exactly, I can still remember some things?”. He moved his feet closer to his body. “It's the hippocampus that's responsible for forming new memories, I guess rather than being unable to recall old memories I took some damage which meant I couldn't store that night in my long term memory?” 

Keith nodded, “So some kind of traumatic amnesia?”

“I guess so?” He paused, trying to think of an easier way to describe his situation. “I suppose the best way I could explain this feeling is ummm like if you’ve ever had a relative with Alzheimer's, they can’t make the memories so I suppose it’s that but downplayed by loadsssss”

“I’m an orphan, Lance. I have no relatives”

“Oh shit.”   
Instant regret  
“Dude oh my god I’m so sorry, that was super insensitive of me.”

Purple eyes met the reflection of the dark abyss below. “You wouldn’t have known, we only formally met this morning.”

Something about those words seemed forced. Lance decided not to question any further. He’d rather bask in the bliss of ignorance for at least this one night.  
His lungs dug out a cathartic scream:   
“FUCK YOU OCEAN!”. 

With Keith, he felt indestructible. It felt as though he could be a key in finding himself once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!   
> Keith’s grudge against the sea will be explained in future chapters ;) 
> 
> Looking for someone to Beta read this as I feel like I make a lot of stupid mistakes haha!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this gives a good atmosphere for the fic and that you enjoyed it :)) I’m planning to make this pretty long, stirring in some angst and adding in a pinch more fluff!  
> Feedback appreciated as always <3


End file.
